


Dust to Dust

by ElricLawliet



Category: Red vs. Blue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElricLawliet/pseuds/ElricLawliet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>You.</em> You killed him."</p><p>Washington cocks his head to the side.</p><p>"That's war, Felix. Not everyone makes it back."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust to Dust

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this post](http://king-guinevere.tumblr.com/post/127666575315/cannibal-felix-felix-stands-in-front-of-wash) and cause I'm a fuckin masochist who revels in destroying myself and others, I wrote it.
> 
> gets the tiniest bit graphic at the death bit, which is why I labeled it mature.

He's coughing when he comes up, the filter on his helmet only just barely keeping the air around him breathable. It's sweltering and ashy and all he can see, all he can feel is black and red, in his eyes and his ears and his mouth. He snarls, punches his way out of the rubble to stumble back up onto his feet. Felix growls, fumbling around with the settings to try and filter the air better. It's a goddamn disaster area now, probably looks just as bad as Armonia did when Doyle blew it to hell.

Washington and Carolina are gone—not dead, just escaped, and he's absolutely livid. Done and gone and he's beyond pissed because goddammit, how did they even _manage_ to pull a stunt like that off?

He's got half a mind to hurl the useless key off the cliff into the stalagmites below. But it's still a pretty fucking cool sword; and even if the only thing he can do with it now is stab people, he's always had an affinity for stabbing people.

There must be something more than dust in the burning air (and of course there is—everything that made up that ship has gotta be in the air now), because he stands there for another two minutes before he suddenly realizes that the Freelancers are not the only ones he can't find.

“ _Shit.”_

He spins around, jerking back towards the rubble heap he'd punched his way out of with far less dramatic grace than he'd intended, and begins to dig. He will never admit how frantic his movements are, how desperate; when he gets Locus out he'll bitch about what a pain it was and how doing it cost them catching the Freelancers and--

And his gloves hit something that's far too soft and not nearly crumbling enough to be the rocks and ash. He grabs the hand, grunting as he yanks with all his and his armor's strength, and a gray and green armor-clad body is pulled out and slides limply down the bottom of the rubble pile.

It doesn't move, doesn't stir, and suddenly the dust and ash cloying his lungs is not the only reason he can't breathe.

“No.”

He grabs Locus's chest-plate roughly and shakes him, snarling.

“Wake up, lazy bones, now's not the fucking time to be sleeping.”

Locus doesn't move, and Felix tells himself that the absolute silence over their private channel has everything to do with a shorted out helmet radio, and nothing to do with absolutely anything else. He shakes Locus again, slamming the back of his hand against the side of his partner's helmet.

The thing unlatches, tumbles off his head; and there's blood all down his chin and cheeks and storm gray eyes that are only half closed, and Felix's entire body freezes still.

“ _...No.”_

He crouches there for a bit, staring at Locus's face. Then he sets his teeth and stands, lets the chest-plate slide from his grip and the body crumple down.

(That's when he knows, knows with every atom in his body that Locus is gone—because even seeing his face, his eyes, everything he can take and what he can't—Felix knows Locus would never let himself hit the ground so degradingly like that if there was anything left of him at all.)

He finishes calibrating the helmet settings to make breathing easier, and he turns, not looking back at the remnants of the ship or the Purge or—or anything, and he stalks out of the sweltering craggy mountains the color of rust and blood, and as he heads in the direction of the comm tower there is ice in his heart and steel in his eyes.

  
  


\---

  
  


They're _celebrating._ The sons of bitches are actually celebrating, laughing and crying and cheering, and there is Washington and Carolina, right in the middle of it as they stand and accept the gratitude, the congratulations, the hero-worship.

Felix looks a mess, he hasn't stopped walking since he started and his armor is filthy and dented and there's a crack in the edge of his visor, but he doesn't care. He doesn't give a fuck about anything as he strides into the midst of the crowd—he's almost got his swagger back.

They're so busy celebrating they almost don't recognize the battered mess of armor for who it is until he stops in front of the Freelancers, the hilt of the Sword in his hand and whole body wired tight like a cat ready to spring as he glares right at Wash. Guns are cocking, waiting for him to make a move but he stands there, waiting for everyone to shut the hell up. Several of the Fed guys are looking around, almost fearfully, and he absolutely does not give a second thought as to who they would be looking for.

Wash and Carolina look at him, hands on their guns and waiting to see where he'll lunge.

He doesn't.

“You,” he hisses, still glaring right at Wash. He doesn't give a damn about the other one. She was there, sure, but in his mind Wash is Locus's killer. It was him Locus had had his stupid obsession with. It's his fault. “ _You_ killed him.”

He probably imagines the collected intake of breath, though he doesn't imagine seeing the couple with their helmets off drop their jaws in a gape, or the way those few Feds suddenly stop turning their heads.

Washington tilts his head to the side, processing Felix's words, helmet still masking any expression of surprise he might have on his face. Felix is equal parts furious and glad, he isn't sure he would be able to handle or accept the facial proof that Locus had just been _collateral,_ a quote-unquote bonus in these guys fucking up their plans yet again; but he's still furious because that infuriating son of a bitch is just staring at him, not even fucking bright enough to figure out what his words mean and _this_ is it, this is they guy who killed his--

“That's war, Felix. Not everyone makes it back.”

And the ice in his heart is now in his blood, entire body frozen as the familiar, all-too familiar words make their way through his brain.

He roars, and there's a crackling as the sword activates, and he lunges for the Freelancer's throat--

He reckons to himself that he hears the shot, feels a sharp pain in his head before he slumps at Washington's feet, but the truth is he's dead before his body hits the dirt.

He also reckons to himself that he hears a familiar long-suffering sigh, and a deep voice growling in his ears.

_**"This is why you're supposed to leave the planning to me.”** _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Why are my angst stories written in present indicative? We just don't know.
> 
> Feel free to comment. feelin' a little bit iffy on how well I got Felix at the end there.


End file.
